


What You Know

by Apetslife



Category: Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say to write what you know...anyway, this is the AU where Joey's a bartender, Justin's a stripper with a vow of chastity, and Nick Carter and AJ McLean are in a band.  Do with that what you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Know

Joey's not quite exhausted, and not quite drunk, but he's teetering on the very edge of both, and he thanks God once again that closing time is less than a half an hour away. Tend bar, they'd said. Free drinks, hot chicks, big tips, party all the time, they'd said. They hadn't mentioned the endless hours, the rowdy booze hounds, the drunk society girls puking on the floor while their boyfriends pick fights with the bouncers. The nights all blur together, too, all pretty much the same; Joey's not even sure what day it will be tomorrow.

He drops a straw in the vodka cran he's just poured for the blond halfway down the bar _shitty tipper great tits wants her drinks stiff yeah right_ , slaps a lime wedge on the rim of the glass, and hands it over with his biggest fakest smile. She sends him one right back, drops two quarters in a puddle of beer and turns back to the loser in the suit she's been chatting up for the last hour. He wishes her luck; he's pretty sure that guy's married.

"Joey, hey, Joey!" He turns with a smile, another regular _Bud Light tonight running a tab has three girlfriends_ who thinks knowing the bartender's name gets him faster service. Who knows, he might be right, and Joey scrambles for a pint glass, dodging Marjorie who's back from the tequila run to the cellar, stepping over the remains of the dropped Sam Adams, and slides the regular his Bud Light without so much as a moment’s hesitation. He's officially been working at this bar for too long.

"Joey!" He turns again, only this time the smile is real, because he recognizes that voice, even over the jangle of the juke box and the overwhelming hum of too many voices speaking too loudly. "Joey!" He searches out the blond head, green eyes, pale face, and holds up a finger to the guy _glasses overcoat likes the Rangers drinks Beam_ who wants his drink topped off. He'll be there in just a second.

"Lance," he knows he sounds harried, but he's truly happy to see Lance, though he can't imagine why he's here. "What's up, man, I've got last call in a couple, hang on." He runs to top up the Beam, takes the money and tip and drops it into the register, and he's back with Lance and it looks like he might even have a minute to talk. Lance looks a little worried.

"Talk quick, kid, I'm hoppin'."

"Good night?" Lance eyes the tip till with professional interest. He works downtown at a highly fancy hotel, pours Chivas and Belvedere for the brokers and the movie stars, and he makes a lot more money than Joey does. Joey doesn't mind so much; he fits in better here, where there are cigarette burns on the bar and Bud on tap and Dixie Chicks in the jukebox.

"You could say that. You wanna come back here so I can go take a piss? I'm dying."

"Ah, no," Lance shrugs apologetically. "Meeting someone in a couple. Listen, though, I need a favor."

"What?" Joey'll do anything for his friends, Lance knows this, but Lance's favors tend toward the bizarre, and Joey's a little wary.

"We've got this big bash, some label rented out the hotel, some kind of record release." Lance's sigh signals his intense boredom with the whole thing. "Anyway, Jean-Luc quit today in a totally spectacular flameout, Carlos is in Cancun, and Steve has the clap...we can't have some guy serving drinks to vippies with one hand and scratching his balls with the other, you know?"

"Right." Joey grins a little at the image. "And your point is?"

"We need another tender for tomorrow night, and I know you're off here." Lance's eyes go wide and pleading, a look he knows Joey has to fight to resist. "Huge tips, Joe. Huge. You just wear a white shirt and black pants, smile nice, serve a lot of Glenfiddich-rocks and martinis, and go home a happy man."

Joey scowls at him. This isn't the first time Lance has tried to get Joey to cover a bar at the Lex; last time, as Joey recalls, it was because he wanted to go antiquing upstate with that pretty little interior designer he'd picked up at work. Joey had politely declined, and he's about to again, but a customer's shouts of "Hey!" distract him.

"Great, Joey, thanks!" Lance calls after him, waving and running for the door. "I'll tell them you'll be there, it'll be fine, I swear!"

"Lance!" He yells, and knows Lance can hear him. "I am *not* working some snotty function on the first week of the smoking ban on my night off! Lance! Hey!" Lance is gone, and he's got customers screaming for booze, and in the insanity of the next twenty minutes Joey forgets all about Lance and his offer and concentrates on making sure his customers leave The Bear Bar as drunk as possible.

***

Joey might not be a genius when it comes to analytical thought, but he's got an encyclopedia of names, faces and information stored up in his brain; it makes him really good at his job. So when he climbs wearily up the steps towards his door and almost trips on someone waiting there, it only takes one glance _curls small singer knows Chris_ to know who it is. He sighs, and shakes his head.

"Howie, man, go home." He fumbles for his key. "Chris ain't here, he's out of town for like three days."

"Oh." Howie looks around, like Joey's got Chris stashed behind a mailbox or something, waiting for him to leave. "He didn't tell me, I'm sorry to bother you."

"You're not bothering me," Joey explains patiently, "he's just not here. Even if he was, I dunno about this pseudo-stalking thing you've got going. You're, like, blocking my stairwell."

"Sorry," Howie says again, with a helpless shrug and his hands held out wide. "I just...I want to see him, you know? Maybe if I keep turning up, he'll..." he trails off, with another shrug.

"Date you? Marry you? Move to Vermont with you?" Joey's usually a lot nicer than this, but he's exhausted and he's got a bitch of a headache starting behind his eyes. "Pretty small chance, man, honestly. I know Chris, you know Chris, you know he doesn't do boyfriends. Or girlfriends. Whatever." He pats Howie on the shoulder, immediately sorry for the sting of his words. "I'd move on if I was you."

"I can't," Howie answers simply, and he doesn't look devastated or brokenhearted, only determined, and Joey groans a little.

"Okay, don't move on, but don't do it somewhere else, okay? You hang out on a stoop in this neighborhood and you're liable to get picked up for loitering. Or suspicion of trafficking, or something. It's five in the morning, go HOME. I'll tell him you were here."

"Yeah?" Howie's grin is like a lightbulb turning on, and Joey blinks a little in the glare. "Cool, thanks. I'll call him Monday, I guess. Thanks, Joey."

"No problem." Joey pats his shoulder again and stands for a moment on the top step, watching him go and breathing the cool predawn city air. He can hear the newborn hum of traffic, there's an ambitious bird chirping somewhere, and the street is empty and cold and dark. He turns to the door again and heads up the stairs, wondering if Justin's home yet and if he's made breakfast. Joey could use some waffles right about now.

***

There are good things and bad things about living with a stripper and an itinerant temp worker. High on the list of "good" is that none of them keep regular hours, so when Joey hears Justin singing in the shower, he can be fairly sure it's after one in the afternoon. Still, he pulls a pillow over his head and prays for silence. At least with Chris gone he doesn't have anyone moving around his actual *room*, but Justin's an enthusiastic vocalist, and the pillow is pretty much a futile gesture.

“Justin,” he groans, knowing he won’t be heard. “Shut *up*.”

It takes a long moment of consciousness for Joey to realize how uncomfortable he is. It’s hot in the tiny room, the heavy breathless airless heat of a room that’s had afternoon sun shining in, and the sheets are wet against his back and bunched maddeningly over his legs. Light cotton feels unbearably stifling, and he kicks the sheets back, sprawling naked and sweating and miserably overheated on the bed.

“Justin!” he finally shouts, without opening his eyes. “Don’t use all the hot water!”

“I’m taking a COLD shower,” Justin calls back promptly, “so quit your bitching! Also, it’s two, so get up, JC’s coming over to watch the game.”

Suddenly a cold shower sounds like the best idea in the whole world, and Joey rolls out of bed and to his feet with one mighty effort, stumbling towards the bathroom. It’s only a couple of steps away, and the door’s leaning on the frame, as close to ‘closed’ as it gets. Joey lifts it carefully out of the way and puts it back after he’s inside.

“J, I’m in here,” he announces, just in case Justin wasn’t noticing. “You almost done in there?”

“No,” Justin’s voice is muffled, like he’s holding something in his mouth. “’m shaving.”

“Shaving what?” Joey pulls back the curtain and peers into the tub. Justin’s got a razor held between his teeth, and is soaping his chest. “Again?”

“Grows too fast,” Justin mumbles, squinting at him. “Nice hair.”

“Shut up.” Joey climbs into the ancient tub, shoving Justin aside so he can get under the blessedly cool water. It feels like heaven, and he closes his eyes, letting it wash away the sweat and stink of the bar and the city. Justin, used to this sort of thing by now, peers into the mirror he’s stuck to the tiled wall with suction cups, drawing the razor over his chest carefully.

“Move your fat ass, I gotta rinse,” he finally says, and Joey moves away, reaching for the shampoo.

“JC’s coming over?” The water is waking up his brain. “What game?”

“Baseball, duh,” Justin looks at him like he’s an idiot, and Joey shrugs. He could give a shit.

“You missed a spot.” He points to a little patch of stubble just under Justin’s left pec, and Justin groans.

“Someday I’m gonna be able to afford electrolysis, I swear. This sucks.” Joey’s heard this song before, so he just rolls his eyes and keeps washing his hair as Justin attacks the offending spot. He’s pretty much shaved clean, except for the neatly trimmed bush of chestnut curls at his groin; even his happy trail is gone. Justin’s half-hard, but it’s pretty ignorable; he’s *always* half hard. Joey figures it’s because the kid never gets laid.

“By the time you save up enough to get your whole body zapped, you’re gonna be old and fat and saggy, and you won’t *need* to be hairless any more,” he points out with a grin, watching Justin bristle.

“I will never be fat and saggy!” He runs a hand down the ripples of his abs, the sharply defined grooves of muscle just above his pelvis, and Joey has to admit that from here it doesn’t really seem possible. He’d be jealous of Justin, but he knows just how much time the kid spends in the gym, and that kind of dedication is just not in Joey’s makeup. He contents himself with knowing that push comes to shove, he can take Justin down in a matter of seconds.

“Famous last words,” he warns, and snatches the soap out of Justin’s hands. “Get out, you’re taking up too much space.”

“I was here first,” Justin protests. “And it’s too hot out there, I was thinking of staying in here all day.”

“What, you’re gonna bring the TV in here?” Joey raises his eyebrows and starts soaping one foot, balancing precariously on the other. “Go, get out.”

“You just want to piss in the shower and don’t want me to know,” Justin sulks. “That’s totally disgusting, you realize.”

“If you leave, you won’t have to watch,” Joey smiles sweetly at him, and Justin scrunches up his nose in distaste, fleeing the shower in short order. Joey sighs happily, and aims at the drain.

***

JC’s a ballet dancer, but Joey thinks he missed his calling as a fashion consultant. Regardless of his profession, he’s still there after the baseball game ends, and Joey’s grateful, because he can’t figure out which white shirt to wear to the damn release party.

He’s sitting on Joey’s bed, legs spread in a full split, and Joey can’t look directly at him; he thinks JC’s constant stretching is unnatural and looks incredibly painful. Especially when JC leans his body down between his legs so that his chest’s almost flat on the mattress, props his chin on his hands, and points his toes at the ceiling. Joey winces.

“You can’t wear either of those,” JC points out reasonably, staring at the shirts Joey’s laid out. “That one doesn’t have a collar, and that one’s not white, it’s eggshell.”

“JC, sit like a normal person for once?” Joey tosses both shirts at the dresser he shares with Chris, not caring much when they don’t quite make it there. “I’ve only got one other white shirt, and it needs ironing.”

“Get Justin to iron it for you,” JC suggests placidly, sitting up and putting the soles of his feet together, his knees flat on the bed to the sides. Joey refrains from comment; at least it’s better than the splits. “Or I guess I could, if he doesn’t want to.”

“Are you sure you’re straight?” Joey yanks the last white shirt out of the wardrobe; it’s a mass of wrinkles, and he can’t even remember the last time he wore it. He hopes it still fits. “I mean, seriously, man. You can iron, too?”

“’Course I can, and sure I am.” JC giggles. “Plenty of straight guys can iron shirts, Joey. You just don’t know any, is all. Oh, speaking of! You remember that girl I was telling you about, Marlene? She’s in the corps with me?” JC’s still incredibly proud that he’d been accepted to the corps de ballet of the New York City Ballet the month before; pretty much every conversation with him includes that fact somewhere. “Turns out we have a lot in common. We both love her body and we can both put our ankles behind our ears.” His grin makes his eyes almost disappear.

“Oh, NICE!” Joey high-fives him, briefly imagining it, and coughing a little at the image. “Excellent work, dude, I remember you saying how hot she is. One nighter, or something more?”

“I dunno,” JC shrugs, taking the shirt and shaking it out. “I think she likes herself more than she likes me, but that could just be, like, my preconceived notions, you know? We’ll see tomorrow at rehearsal, if she’s all freakish then no, if she’s something like normal, maybe. Who knows? And man, I’m so glad you’re bi…I tried telling J about this, and he was all, sex, ew, girl, ew! Very unhelpful.”

“Justin Timberlake, the world’s only celibate gay male stripper,” Joey sighs, digging for the iron. “What a freak.”

“I heard that!” The voice drifts in from the next room, which is the living room or Justin’s bedroom, depending on who you asked. “Quit talking about me, you fuckin’ sluts, I can hear you!”

“Frigid bitch,” JC calls back, and Justin makes an inarticulate sound of protest before the volume on the TV jumps noticeably.

“Freak,” JC mouths exaggeratedly to Joey, and Joey laughs.

***

Joey’s standing in a neat little line of bartenders, listening to the wine steward and maitre ‘d run down the list of do’s and don’ts for the third time, and he can’t imagine being any more uncomfortable. He’ll never keep straight which martinis get an olive and which don’t, which version of the Cosmo gets a twist of lemon and which can *only* have lime, and frankly, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t imagine his customers will, either, but he’s doing his best to look alert and attentive, aided by the periodic digs of Lance’s elbow in his side.

At least his shirt is wrinkle-free. And his goatee is freshly trimmed, courtesy of Justin, and is looking very sharp.

The maitre ‘d claps his hands imperiously, finally, and nods at them. “We’ll be making rounds,” he adds ominously. “Tips go in the common box, they’ll be split equally between everyone at the end of the night. Never leave your station unattended…if you need a break, get one of the champagne waiters to find me to cover. And remember, there’s no smoking! We’ve had undercover cops in here every night this week, and the fine is stiff. It WILL come out of our tips if we let smoking slide, I don’t care if Michael Jackson himself is lighting up in front of you.”

Joey nods like all the other monkeys, and wishes he was at his own bar. Lance grabs his arm and drags him across the richly carpeted floor towards one of the bar stations scattered around the huge reception room. Joey barely has a moment to stare at the huge posters of the blond guy all over the walls, holding a guitar, strangling a microphone, posing on a beach, overemoting. Some of the pictures look like they were taken when he was thirteen. “NICK CARTER: PLAY ME” the posters read. Joey likes Nick Carter’s music, especially now that he’s gone to harder rock. He wonders if he’ll get to see him tonight.

“I’m with you for the first two hours,” Lance reminds Joey for the umpteenth time, and Joey nods.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, I get it, you won’t let me fuck up. Damn, Lance, this collar is strangling me. You didn’t tell me I’d be wearing a *tie*.” Joey’s pretty sure he looks like a penguin; black pants, white shirt, black tie. It’s not his look, not at all.

“We always wear ties for the big deals,” Lance says dismissively. Lance doesn’t look like a penguin, he looks like a highly successful executive or something. Sleek and cool and competent and haughty, and Joey remembers why they don’t sleep together any more. “Just remember, man. Eight hundred in tips, minimum, I swear. You’ll be able to pay rent *and* get a VCR.”

“Which is the only reason I’m here,” Joey reminds him with a glare. “I still can’t believe you tricked me into this. You know I hate this high-society shit.”

“It’s rock stars, Joey,” Lance throws his head back and laughs, and for a second Joey *can’t* remember why they aren’t sleeping together any more. “Rock stars and record execs, hardly high society. We’ll probably be the sharpest dressed guys in the place.”

“You, maybe,” Joey grumbles, tugging at his tie again. “I look like a penguin.” He scans the area behind the bar; at least that’s familiar, lovely full bottles waiting to be poured, a few bottles of wine in a rack, buckets of ice and a couple of bins filled with imported beer. Little cups of cut lemons and limes, maraschino cherries and olives. It all looks wonderful now; twenty minutes after the door opens, a war zone would be less chaotic.

“You do not.” Lance pats his shoulder comfortingly. “You look fine. Justin iron your shirt?”

“JC,” Joey confesses. “He wouldn’t let me wear the eggshell one, either. It looked white to me, but he insisted.”

“Good boy, JC.” Lance sighs a little, cocking his hip and lounging against the liquor rack. “That man is wasted on the straight world. Wasted, I’m telling you, and it’s a crying damn shame.”

“I keep telling him that,” Joey nods, ties the small black apron on, and cracks his fingers. He’s ready to go. “I don’t think he cares much, though.”

“The best ones are straight or married,” Lance says mournfully. “Always.”

“Hey!” Joey snaps him with a dishtowel, and Lance almost falls down, laughing.

***

“Miss, can you please put that out? There’s no smoking allowed in the building.” Joey stands firm under the poisonous look the starlet sends his way and kisses his tip goodbye, but she does stub the cigarette out in the little dish he’s set on the bar. “Thank you,” he says humbly, truly grateful she didn’t put up more of a fuss. She sneers and flounces away with a flip of her long, glossy hair. Joey rubs his temples, and looks around the room.

The three undercover cops are still standing pretty much where they’d been the last time he’d checked, nursing drinks and looking incredibly out of place. He rolls his eyes. No one here is wearing a suit—unless it’s from the new A/X fall collection—and those guys look like they shop at the Burlington Coat Factory. Which Joey knows, because he shops there too. It’s pretty funny, watching the crowd split and eddy around them like they’re not even there.

And what a crowd it is. Joey’s never seen so many gorgeous people in one place, and his tongue would be hanging to the floor if he wasn’t so busy pouring drinks and getting nic-fitting starfuckers to put out their smokes. Lance was having the same problem before he got pulled off this bar and sent up to the VIP space; apparently, Lance is much in demand in VIP. Joey snorts a little. Of course Lance is. He gives head like a pro and mixes the best-tasting, wickedest Cosmo in New York, a combination apparently worth its weight in gold. Still, Joey wishes he was here, instead. Lance has a way of looking at the smokers that makes them absolutely *scramble* to extinguish, stammering apologies all the while.

Joey figures Lance has an even higher grade of eye-candy where he is now, and shakes his head jealously. Fuckin’ Lance.

“Sir, please put the cigarette out.” It’s the guy _dark hair thin gorgeous eyes dark blue shirt_ who tried to make Joey look like an asshole earlier, asking for drinks with outlandish and obviously just-invented names. Joey knows that game, and just smiled and asked how that drink was made. The guy left a little annoyed, but now he’s back, and he’s puffing away. He smirks at Joey, and blows a perfect smoke ring Joey’s way.

“Sir,” Joey tries to maintain his polite face, though it’s hard. “I need you to put that out. Smoking’s illegal here, and there are undercover-“

“I don’t give a shit.” The guy arches his eyebrows to punctuate his point. “What are they gonna do, arrest me? For smoking? I dare ‘em to try.” He leans back against the bar, propped on his elbows, and blows a blissful stream of smoke straight up at the ceiling. Joey fights a smile. He really doesn’t want to like this guy.

“They’ll fine you. And they’ll fine me. And I’ll lose tips,” Joey pleads. “And get fired. Look, could you at least smoke it somewhere el-“

“Relax, man.” The guy reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wad of bills, and peels off a few hundreds. Joey doesn’t goggle, through herculean effort. “Here, take this, shut up, let me smoke. If I get busted, I’ll tell ‘em you were a good boy.” He grins at Joey, wow is he cute, and slaps the bills down on the bar.

Joey fights his conscience. Is this bribery? It could be considered a really good tip. If it’s a tip, should it go in the tip jar? If the guy hits on him later would saying yes make Joey a hooker? Joey decides no on all the above, and pockets the money casually, returning the grin with one of his own and a little shrug. Money makes New York go ‘round, after all, and far be it from Joey to interrupt the natural progression of things.

The guy smokes in peace. Joey mixes another whiskey sour for the drunk middle aged executive’s wife at the other end of the bar. If the cops come over, he doesn’t see it happen.

Ten requests to “please put that out” later, Joey’s starting to feel like a broken record. And an asshole. No one else has offered him four hundred dollars of hush money, either, which is a little disappointing given the crowd, but as the people get drunker the incidents get closer together. He actually sees one of the undercover cops writing out a ticket to someone, an expensively-dressed woman who looks incredibly bored by it all. Somehow he thinks that the threat of a fine isn’t going to work too well with this group. At least the scenery is still good, and he saw a couple going at it behind one of the couches a little while back, which was neat. It’s almost two midnight, when he gets a break, and he can’t wait. If he has to ask just *one* more person—

“Sir.” His jaw’s already clenching, and he can tell this one’s gonna be a pain. Short, dark, wearing sunglasses inside, multiple facial piercings and lots of tattoos on display…oh yeah, he’s going to make Joey’s life difficult. “You can’t smoke that here, please put it out.”

“Fuck you.” The guy’s not drunk, as far as Joey can tell, but he sounds nasty. “And fuck that fucking law.”

“I didn’t make it,” Joey explains, yet again. “I’ve just got to enforce it. Please put the cigarette out.”

“Make me,” the guy sneers. “Fuckin’ Nazi, no way I’m putting this out.” He flicks ash into Joey’s cup of lemons, and Joey grinds his teeth and barely resists coming over the bar at him.

“There are police officers here,” he explains tightly, coming around the end of the bar and extending the ashtray. “Please put it out now.” He can see someone big and blond approaching in his peripheral vision, and can only hope it’s one of the other bartenders for backup.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Disgusted, the guy stubs out his cigarette, and shoves the ashtray back towards Joey, staggering him. Without even thinking, Joey shoves back, an automatic reaction as he tries to stay on his feet, and next thing he knows he’s got stars exploding in his vision as his head snaps back, and the clear thought “I’ve been punched! Holy shit!” flashes across his mind.

Automatic pilot again, years of getting smacked around for being in the drama club and the choir assuring he’s well-conditioned, and there’s the satisfying snap of his shoulder and arm, the shooting pain in his knuckles, the always-shocking bloom of blood from someone else’s nose, and someone screaming “fight! fight!” in the background, distant and shrill. Just like high school, except that in high school, there were never any cops around to break things up.

***

Joey’s never been in jail before, at least not as an adult, and Juvenile Hall was nothing like this. He’s in a cell, it’s cold and dark and fairly intimidating, and he can’t stop wondering why he’s the only one in here. It’s a large cell, it could hold a lot of people, probably, but the only company he has is a drunken bum snoring in the next cell over. It’s very quiet. He tries to think of comforting things, but his mind is on a frantic loop of “assault and battery, come with us, sir. Assault and battery, come with us, si-“

A door clangs open, and he’s not the only one in here anymore. He looks up warily from his seat on the concrete bench, just in time to watch a tall—oh, it’s definitely a drag queen, stumbling in as the door slides shut again. Joey’s pretty sure the 25th Precinct hasn’t gone to coed cells, after all. Almost seven feet tall in those heels, and Joey takes a moment to admire the skintight black patent leather minidress and the knee-high gogo boots. Not everyone can pull off patent leather, after all.

“Fuck you, Steve, and fuck your homophobic boss!” The queen shouts after the retreating cop, who just shakes his head wearily and keeps walking. “Fuck!” She turns with a sweep of long black hair, and Joey blinks. Wow. Fierce. Excellent falsies. Blood red lips and striking green eyes under thick, perfectly arched brows, and Joey hasn’t seen a queen like this in some time.

“Give *one* blow job,” she fumes, stomping over to the other bench and sitting with a flounce, long, slim legs spread carelessly. Joey can see the lacy edge of her garter belt. “Stand on *one* corner just a little too long, and see what happens? Fuck. And *you*, take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Just admiring the manicure,” Joey says honestly. “Don’t worry, you won’t get hassle from me.”

“Why, thank you, honey.” Suddenly she smiles, more like a shark baring its teeth, and runs a long-fingered hand through her hair, settling it perfectly again. “What’s a nice boy like you doing in a shithole like this?”

“I think I broke a rock star’s nose,” Joey sighs, and rubs his temples. “He hit me first, though.”

“Oh my.” She leans forward, coolly interested. “Celebrity rumbles! Just about the only decent reason to get arrested. Tell tell, brighten up my shitty night.”

Joey laughs a little, though it’s not really funny. At least he’s got company now. “I’m a bartender, I was working a record release, some big-deal party for Nick Carter’s new album. Tried to get the…drummer, I think?…to put out his smoke, we had words, he smacked me and I punched him back. It’s not really all that exciting.”

“Oh.” She looks a little disappointed, and Joey can’t blame her. “Well, where’s he, then? Shouldn’t he be wallowing in misery right here at your side? It seems quite *desperately* unfair that he’s not, really.”

“Tell me about it,” Joey snorts. “Last I saw one of the cops was talking to someone that looked like he worked security, and there were like fifteen lawyer types racing to the scene. Unbelievable. I’m getting hauled off in handcuffs, he’s getting exactly jack shit. I haven’t even had my phone call yet!” He stands up and starts to pace. “I get a phone call, right? They can’t just send me away, can they?”

“You get a phone call if you’re charged,” she advises him, inspecting a carnelian nail from all angles. “And if you can afford a lawyer, get one, the public defenders around here are for absolute shit. Don’t admit anything to anyone in a uniform, and for God’s sake don’t cry.” An extended hand stops Joey in his tracks. “Sweetie, sit down, you’re making me tired. Come, park that cute ass and tell your Auntie Dahlia everything.”

“Dahlia?” Joey’s eyebrows are raised, he can’t help it. He does sit, though, with another sigh.

“As in, The Black?” She arches a brow right back at him, and Joey admits he’s outmatched there. “Possibly before your time, don’t trouble your head about it. Now, be honest, it’s your first time, am I right?”

“Yeah. I keep having these fantasies of getting sent up river and becoming Bubba’s buttmonkey. Not exactly fantasies. You know what I mean.”

“Think positive. Bubba could be cute.” She grins at him, and Joey finds himself grinning back, flushing a little as she tilts her head in silent acknowledgement.

“Well, true, I guess. But still, I kind of want to go home.”

“’Course you do. Punching a guy in the nose? That’s piddly stuff, sweetie, you’ll get a fine and maybe some community service, and you’ll be home by morning, I promise.” Her smile is actually sympathetic. “Tossing you in here is just a scare tactic, don’t let them get to you. I bet you don’t even get formally charged. Now, more importantly…did you meet Nick?” She makes a ludicrous swoony face, false eyelashes fluttering, and Joey snickers.

“Nope, not even once. I think he was in VIP, mostly. Too bad he didn’t keep his band with him.” Joey rolls his eyes. “What an asshole. Not Nick, the other guy. I can’t fucking believe I’m in jail.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Dahlia sounds philosophical, and Joey wonders how many times she’s been in. “Really, the only thing you can hope for is that you don’t get busted on the same night the fuzz breaks up a frat party. Gawwwd, that is the worst.” She shudders delicately, and then looks at Joey through her eyelashes. “They always want head.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Joey says carelessly, flushing a little. “I mean. Possibly a jail cell isn’t the best place, but. I mean.” He shrugs, instead of talking more. He knows when he’s sounding like an idiot.

“Oh, you’re just the sweetest thing,” she coos, laying a fingertip on his arm. Joey shivers a little. He’s had a terrible night, and he’s still terrified, but really, he hasn’t seen legs like these on a boy in he can’t remember how long. He’s in jail, and he feels dangerous and illicit, and he’s pretty sure there’s some kind of sexual activity on the table. He bites his lip, and edges a little closer to Dahlia, wondering if he’s going to be expected to pay if it’s not stated explicitly up front.

She licks her lips and tickles the crook of his arm with a long nail, and he grins. This is SO on. The drunk’s still snoring—Joey checks—and Dahlia’s mouth is red, red, red, and-

The door at the end of the hall bangs open, and Joey leaps back guiltily. Dahlia just sighs and leans back against the wall, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes, and Joey’s pretty sure he’s blushing harder than he ever has in his life. He can’t meet her eyes, so he peers down the corridor. There’s a cop walking towards them, talking in a low voice with a tall blond man.

Nick Carter.

Joey would have sworn ten minutes ago that he wouldn’t have been surprised by anything else that night had to throw at him, and he’d have been so, so wrong. He stands mute as the cop unlocks the door, as Nick taps his foot impatiently, and barely manages to move when the cop grabs his arm and hustles him through the door. He returns Dahlia’s wave numbly, and plods down the hallway, trailing Nick and the officer like a boy leaving the principal’s office behind his parents.

They hand him the bag with his jacket and the contents of his pockets at the desk, and he quickly checks to make sure his ‘tip’ is still there. It is, and he trades a little sneer with the desk sergeant and instantly feels better. He’s a New Yorker, goddammit, and he straightens up and settles his shoulders, and finally looks straight at Nick.

Nick’s looking back, and Joey’s momentarily stunned. This is possibly the prettiest man he’s ever seen in his life. The pictures just don’t do him justice, even though he’s looking weary and kind of frazzled and a little wry. His hair’s sticking up in lots of directions, and his mouth is red and perfect, and Joey finds himself smiling a little.

“Thanks.” He shrugs on his coat. “I’m guessing you posted bail?”

“Told ‘em Alex wasn’t pressing charges,” Nick nods tiredly. “Same difference, basically, either way you’re free. I saw the whole thing, so, yeah. Sorry about that.” He tips a shoulder apologetically. “He’s having a bad night.”

“Yeah, him and me both,” Joey grunts. “Though I guess it’s pretty cool of you to come in person, and all.”

Nick smiles at him, and Joey refrains from swooning. “I was kind of hoping *you’d* agree to not press charges too,” he says with disarming frankness. “I mean, you’d be within your rights, since he threw the first punch and all.”

“Nice to hear you say so,” Joey sighs. “No, I’m not gonna press charges, what the fuck would I do that for? I’m out of here, no harm no foul, I can tell all my friends what the inside of the police station looks like. I’m sure that’ll be good for a drink or two.” Not to mention my up-close-and-personal contact with musical sensation Nick Carter, he adds silently. Lance, at least, will die.

“That’s great to hear.” Nick actually slings an arm around his shoulders, and Joey jumps a little in surprise. “Thanks, man, very cool. I really appreciate it, it’s not really true that any publicity is good.”

“I just don’t want the hassle,” Joey confesses. “Honestly, it’s no big deal.” He rubs his jaw, which feels a little hot and swollen, but he’s gotten worse roughhousing with Chris, and he doesn’t bruise easily.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Nick insists, and Joey cuts his eyes at him, surprised.

“It’s almost three am,” he protests. “It’s been kind of a long day. Most places are gonna be closing up soon, or at least moving towards last call.”

“At least come out to the limo,” Nick prods him, and Joey gets the feeling not many people tell him no. “AJ wants to apologize personally, and plus, there are these papers to sign-“ he waves his hands as Joey bristles. “Hey, you get to keep a copy too. No charges filed on either side, no expectation of monetary damages, yada yada, a guy in a suit gave ‘em to me.”

“In other words, I won’t sue your asses, and I won’t go to jail,” Joey summarizes dryly, and at least Nick has the grace to shrug in agreement. “All right, I’ll sign. Lead the way, man.”

“You’re okay, Joey,” Nick grins, and thumps his shoulder. “You’ll come get that drink, too, right? Since I left my own party, and all, to come bail you out?”

“Well.” Joey lets Nick lead him towards the door. “I do know this one place…”

***

“You can drink here because they don’t get totally naked,” Joey informs AJ smugly, as Nick hoots approvingly and holds his hand up for more shots. AJ’s still fuming, which Joey finds endlessly funny and can’t resist poking at. He’s not so bad, now that he’s not throwing fists, but it’s still great to watch him sputter as a thong-clad guy grinds on a pole not three feet from his face. Joey had gotten them good seats.

“This is fantastic.” Nick’s eyes skim approvingly across the stripper, and Joey smirks. His gaydar’s never wrong. Almost never. He can’t quite figure AJ, who’s probably not as freaked out as he’s pretending to be. “Too bad they don’t get bareassed, but really, this wouldn’t be as good without some liquor.”

“Amen.” Joey clinks his shot glass against Nick’s and downs the tequila in one smooth swallow. He’s gotta party with rich people more often: they run tabs and order off the top shelf. AJ rolls his eyes and sips his soda.

“AJ’s a teetotaler,” Nick says, not apologizing for it at all, which Joey thinks is pretty cool. “He keeps the rest of us on the straight and narrow.”

“Uh-huh,” Joey grins at him, then looks at AJ. He’s never quite sure what questions are okay to ask after a revelation like that, but he’s curious. “Like, religious reasons? Never had a drink ever?”

“Nah, not religious,” AJ shrugs. He clearly doesn’t mind answering. “Just, I get belligerent when I drink, it’s not a good scene. Plus I get the worst hangovers ever.”

“Pukes for days,” Nick confirms. “He’s, like, mildly allergic or something.”

“Wild.” That’s all Joey can think to say to that, and AJ smiles at him, a big goofy grin that makes him look about ten years younger and entirely harmless, no mean feat for someone with that much metal in his face. Pretty cute, too, once you get past the violent tendencies.

“Believe me, I don’t need alcohol to get wild,” he sprawls back in his chair, suddenly languid and comfortable, and Joey blinks. AJ just got instantly sexy, and Joey thinks it’s a damn neat trick.

“So his face knows,” Nick tosses in, and AJ groans out a protest as Joey snickers, and the music gets loud again. Joey sits forward.

“This next guy’s my roommate, the one I told you about,” he shouts to Nick over the thump-thump of the bass.

“I can’t believe you live with a stripper,” Nick shouts back.

“I can’t believe you live with *him*.” Joey waves at AJ, who smacks his arm lightly in retaliation. If his touch lingers a little too long, Joey feels perfectly comfortable blaming it on the fact that Justin’s hit the stage.

Joey’s had enough exposure to the boy that he can watch the performance objectively. Justin’s beautiful; sleek and sexy and toned and tanned, every inch of him as perfect as he can make it. He’s wearing the harem outfit tonight, silky sheer pants gathered at the ankles that sit indecently low on his hips, and a small shiny red vest. The music is vaguely Middle Eastern in tone, and Joey sits back to enjoy the show.

Justin’s barefoot, prowling the stage, dark-lined eyes sweeping the crowd lazily. He’s good at this, and he knows it, and it shows. Those sinful little hips are already swaying to the beat by the time he gets to the pole, and he’s got every eye in the place on him, watching the tease of those almost-transparent pants, the swish and slide of fabric around Justin’s thighs. The flash of the small mirrors on his vest in the red and blue lights. The glimpse of a nipple, already hard and pointed. Joey glances at Nick, and then looks again; Nick’s staring blatantly, mouth a little open, eyes wide. He’s leaning forward so far he’s in danger of falling off his chair, and Joey can almost see his pupils spinning. Joey sighs. He was thinking maybe…but no. Probably not. He wishes Nick joy of Justin, though, since better men than he have tried and failed to get past Justin’s imaginary chastity belt.

The vest comes off as Justin licks his lips, and a sigh goes up from the crowd. Joey grins, watching Nick watch Justin, and AJ catches his eye, a matching grin as he does the same thing. AJ's got his sunglasses up on his head now--Joey figures that even he couldn't see through them in a club this dark, and tripping negates any cool points the glasses might bestow--and he's scoping Joey. Not blatantly, but Joey knows when he's getting cruised, and he's surprised at how interested he is. AJ punched him, sure, but Joey's always liked passion in a person, and it's not like he ended up in the hospital or anything. Not to mention, AJ's slim and lithe and muscular, and moves like he might know a thing or two about dancing himself. Joey lets himself pull the elevator-eyes on AJ, who leans closer in response, eyes interested.

"Holy shit," Nick breathes, distracting them. Nick's on the edge of his seat, and Joey's sinfully tempted to give him a little nudge and see if he falls on his ass. But that would be way too cruel, especially since it might make Nick miss a moment of Justin's expert clothing removal.

He's bending over slowly, in a move that would be cheesy if it weren't so hot, slowly running his palms down his legs and taking the harem pants with them. Joey props his chin on his hand, knowing that Justin hates this part: he thinks he's got chicken legs, and while Joey silently agrees that they're not as great as the rest of him, there's certainly nothing wrong with them.

It used to be weird to watch Justin get naked. Now, it's just another show. And Joey has to struggle not to snicker at the teeny-tiny red G-string Justin's got on: he happens to know that that particular item causes Justin no end of trouble in the laundry.

Nick looks like he'd like to remove it with his teeth. Especially now that Justin's down on his hands and knees, back arched, looking back over his shoulder at them with a wink and a blown kiss. The shameless little tease.

Nick stands up to applaud as Justin saunters down the ramp towards them, and Joey leans back smugly. He'd promised them a show. And when Nick tucks what looks like a $100 in Justin's thong, Joey's even happier. Looks like Justin'll be chipping in on that VCR, and maybe they'll even get a new Playstation. Justin sways close to Nick, murmuring in his ear and smiling, and AJ's a warm presence at Joey's shoulder, dark and exciting, and his hand has slipped to Joey's thigh. This night is definitely looking up.

***

Nick and Justin's voices are rising and falling, Joey can hear them through the door, but he's trying really hard not to listen. He's blurry with exhaustion and alcohol and adrenaline letdown, and the dim light in the hotel room combines with the low murmur of sound to lull him ever so softly into-

He jerks himself back again, and forces himself, desperately, to concentrate. He thinks of Ryan Phillipe, of Angelina Jolie, of Angelina Jolie riding Ryan Phillipe while Reese watches, and gratefully feels himself begin to harden.

"I was about to get insulted," the naked man between his knees mutters, and Joey's eyes flash open.

"No, hey," he reaches for AJ's arm. "It's not you, it's really not. I've just had kind of this unbelievable day, and it's like five in the morning, and everything. You're great."

"Good to know," AJ grins, and traces his tongue, stud glittering wetly, up Joey's cock, still barely half-hard. "It'd be a shame to let all this effort go to waste."

Joey nods, smiling weakly. "I'm not at my best right now," he apologizes again, and AJ rolls his eyes and suckles him lightly. It's not really helping anything, which is utterly terrifying for Joey on one level, and painfully embarrassing on another. He's had this happen once or twice before, and it's never a fun scene.

Thinking quickly, he hauls AJ up his body, startling a laugh out of him as he kisses his mouth fiercely, flicking his tongue against the metal in AJ's lip. AJ, at least, is hard, and Joey's determined that *one* of them will get satisfaction tonight, despite the fact that he has absolutely no desire to either fuck or get fucked. He's feeling ridiculously unsexy and tired, and actually misses AJ's cock the first time he grabs for it. He hasn't been this inept since the eleventh grade, groping with Tommy Brank in the back of his mom's Aries K.

AJ hasn't really caught the rhythm either, though, and Joey's starting to hear a little voice in his ear. It's whispering "sexually incompatible," but Joey's nothing if not a tryer, and he's not giving up this easily. He jerks slow, then fast, holding AJ's slim body against his own with his free arm and kissing him deep and distracting. It seems to work: AJ warms up and starts moving a little, dragging a knee up Joey's side, wriggling encouragingly. Still, there's something halfhearted about it all, and when he comes it's with barely a sound.

Joey's kisses AJ perfunctorily, and rolls over to search for tissues, moderately comforted by the thought that outside the door, Nick's having even less luck than he is. AJ sighs and flops over to his back, glancing at Joey's crotch and then away. Joey figures he's probably relived there's no need for him to reciprocate: at this point, Joey just wants to escape this night with some tattered shred of his dignity intact. If that's even possible. He doubts it.

"So." AJ slips his boxers back on, watching Joey fasten his black pants. "Let's not do this again, huh?"

***

Justin's humming and dancing a little bit as they walk down the empty last half-block of sidewalk to their apartment, and Joey's just trying to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He hates Justin right now. He's not speaking to Justin right now. First, the shock of emerging from AJ's room to find Justin in Nick's lap, fully clothed but purring like a kitten and licking Nick's fingers, was a lot to take. Then, Nick pulling Joey aside and asking earnestly if Justin preferred roses or lilies. It's not that Joey's not happy for Justin: the boy's lit up like a Christmas tree. But the contrast with Joey's day is a little too much to handle right now.

"Grumpy grumpy grouch," Justin sings at him, grinning and teasing and bouncing. "Gotta sleep on the couch. Stub your toe and say ouch. Dum de dum de doutch."

"Shut up," Joey finally sighs, collaring him. "Quit that, you're making me more tired. Did I tell you I was in jail?"

"Like fifteen times," Justin answers promptly, falling into step beside him. "Did you see his *eyes*, Joey? They were the bluest blue I've ever seen. Like water, or something."

"J, never quit your day job to write poetry, okay?" Joey grunts, but he can't help but smile. "Yeah, I saw them. The couple of times when he wasn't staring at you."

"He *did* stare kind of a lot," Justin agrees happily. "He's the greatest guy ever. I think I love him."

"Okay, okay, drama princess, let's not jump the moon, here." Joey hauls him into a headlock. "Let him meet Chris, at least, before you two exchange vows."

"Justin Carter," Justin sighs dreamily, ignoring Joey except to elbow him in the side, staggering along bent in half under Joey’s arm. "Justin Carter-Timberlake. Justin Timberlake-Carter. I think I like the second one best, what about you?"

"I think I'm gonna puke," Joey noogies his hair, and doesn't hold on too tightly when Justin twists away, yelping.

"You shouldn't be this cranky if you got laid as good as you said you did," he accuses, dancing out of reach. "Were you lying? Was it awful?"

"No," Joey lies. He and JC and Chris and Lance have an unspoken agreement to never tell Justin about bad sex: they're afraid if they do, he really will stay a virgin his whole life. Joey crosses his fingers for Nick. "No, it was fine, I'm just whipped. Get the door, will you?"

"Get it yourself," Justin replies automatically, even as he's digging for his key. Joey checks his watch: it's edging towards six, not an unreasonable time to be getting home. That same overachieving bird is starting to chirp somewhere nearby, and the sky's a milky dark grey over the east side of the street. One more breath of fresh air, and he turns into the stairwell, climbing wearily towards the fifth floor. He'll call Lance tomorrow, find out if Lance's bosses are totally pissed, see if Lance got in any trouble. Maybe he'll call the cute guy from the party, too, since one of the bills he'd handed over so casually had a number scrawled on it. Really, he just wants to crawl into bed and forget that this whole insane day ever happened.

"Hey," Chris grins at them from the couch as they shove each other through the door. "You babies miss me?"

All in all, Joey thinks as he leaps on top of the Justin-and-Chris pile, things could be a lot worse.

[end]

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